Contemplations
by tailor31415
Summary: A series of mini-fills for the kinkmeme. Ratings vary from K to M.
1. Battleweary

Rating: M

A/N: Originially written for a kinkme - merlin prompt (Arthur's exhausted and enjoys Merlin sitting on his lap, fucking him gently until he comes, then cleaning and/or bathing him and putting him to bed.)

Disclaimer: I, in no way, shape, or form, own BBC's Merlin and take no credit for the show's plot and characters.

* * *

It was always after the most difficult battles – the ones that began right near dawn and lasted, without pause, until dusk. Arthur would return to camp, victorious more often than not, and make sure all his men were accounted for.

All of them.

So, it would be well-past dark when he finally left the fires and celebration and made his way to his own tent.

Merlin would find him there, after following him around most of the camp, and immediately set to work easing armor off of bruised and cut limbs. Arthur would merely stand there, barely keeping his eyes open, as the other man worked.

And then, he would catch sight of Merlin, actually notice him as Merlin and not his manservant, and Arthur would be struck with the thought that he could have lost Merlin that day. He could have lost Merlin or Merlin could have lost him or he could have lost Camelot. Or Camelot and Merlin – and that was the most unbearable of all.

His hands would tremble – his whole arms actually. No, it was his whole body.

Merlin had once said it was all his battle lust crashing down on him – he had so much energy prepared for use, prepped for use, and suddenly no more use for it – had once said it only crashed on him here, in his tent, because he was constantly alert out in the camp. For his men's safety.

Arthur wasn't too sure if he believed that – but he knew it was something that came over him that made him want to pull Merlin into his arms and push and pull and shove and bite and scratch until they were one, fully and completely.

Watching Merlin stacking the armor and mail in the corner, Arthur would lean back against the table, or the bed, or sit in the chair perhaps, whatever was closest really, and say softly, "Merlin."

The other would turn towards him, eyes bright in the darkening tent, and merely look at him for a moment. And, his eyes would soften slightly – because he knew what Arthur wanted and why – and he'd find the small bottle of oil they kept for use with sore muscles. Mostly.

It was, in fact, one of the only things Merlin had learned to make under Gaius' tutelage – mainly to avoid the awkward question of why Arthur ran through so much of it.

Arthur would watch as Merlin would approach him, gait slow and sometimes stiff, if Merlin had been out there too, and Arthur would want to sweep him into his arms and squeeze to ensure the other man was still there.

That Arthur still had him.

Arthur would watch as Merlin dropped his trousers and clambered up to perch on Arthur's lap – on the bed, on the chair, on the table – and gently prepare himself. Arthur would watch him with what he liked to think was love, but often feared was perhaps just lust. Or battle fervor. Or whatever Merlin liked to call it.

He wanted to reach up and do the work himself, to pull Merlin down and grasp his hips and direct his body however he wished. But, Arthur could barely raise his arms enough to brush his fingers against Merlin's thighs – every muscle in them quivered with the memory of the weight of his sword and the force he needed to drive it through enemy after enemy.

He wanted to grip into Merlin's soft hair and pull him down for kiss after kiss.

Instead, he watched as Merlin moved, around him, above him, almost nearly through him, and waited for the moments when Merlin's hands would flutter down to his shoulders and pull Arthur slightly so Merlin could bend enough to press their lips together.

Merlin would give off soft little sighs and moans, voice always quiet because of the surrounding tents and the noise from continued celebration outside, and would fix his eyes on Arthur the entire time.

"I'm still here," he'd sometimes whisper, "At your side."

And sometimes, "You were amazing, Arthur, beyond belief," with soft, gentle kisses between words.

"You kept us all safe, once again."

Or, far less often than Arthur would have liked, there was an almost breathless admission of "Didn't even need my help." Which, well, yes, he normally didn't rely on Merlin in the midst of battle. But he liked when Merlin said it because his voice held such awe, it sent a bolt of warmth straight through his chest.

And when Arthur felt the warm pressure down low, he would, sometimes, stretch his arms to the point of pain and grip on Merlin's hipbones – finally, finally – and hold him steady as he spilled his warmth into the other man.

Merlin would press another soft kiss to his cheeks and then maybe his lips and ease himself back down to the ground.

And he and Arthur would make their way, slowly, to the tub of warm water Merlin always seemed to have ready – no matter how long it had been since they left for the battlefield – but Arthur didn't care, not really, for how. He was just grateful it was there.

Merlin would ease him down into it, as much as Arthur wanted to be the one doing so to him instead, and then plop himself down into the water with far less grace. Arthur would sputter from the splash into his eyes or mouth or nose and poke Merlin with toes that protested stretching, after the day he had.

The other man would beam at him, in a sleepy way, and scavenge around the tub for a cloth.

And he would begin to gently massage the warm water into filthy bruises and cuts that stung with the warmth, but in a way Arthur far preferred to the sting from receiving them. Merlin would clean Arthur until every mark from the battle was either gone or ready to be wrapped.

Merlin's lips would always purse slightly when he cleaned the cuts and scrapes, but Arthur would give a little shrug of his shoulders – more of a tilt of his head with the way his muscles screamed – and brush his concern off.

And Arthur would take the cloth from him when he was done and scrub it against itself under the surface of the water for a moment – to get it as clean as possible – before he turned to Merlin.

Arthur would run the cloth all along Merlin, rubbing at the other's dirt patches and minute cuts, and he would wonder how someone who was supposed to remain in camp – because Merlin wasn't a knight and Arthur knew that and almost regretted even bringing him to the battlefields except for these moments here, and the moments when Merlin would make everyone laugh even though some of them may never see the next sunset – was able to get wounded in such a way.

Merlin would lean his head back and smile as Arthur worked, slow as it was, and Arthur would give a small smile of his own in reply.

And, more often than not, Arthur would give a few tugs on the hardness – slightly diminished now – Merlin had never satisfied earlier, at the table or the bed or the chair or wherever, and would relish in the sight of Merlin's surprise at the reciprocation.

The other man would hum and twist in Arthur's grip until he came with a splash and a cry that was muffled behind hands over his mouth.

They would smile at each other, maybe exchange a few, soft words, but, more often than not, just smile as if they hadn't spent the day watching men die.

Merlin would find the bath sheet somehow, even though Arthur could see the remnants of pleasure were still sending trembles through his legs, and wrap Arthur in it and then himself.  
When they were both dry, or mostly at least, Merlin would carefully wrap the worst of Arthur's wounds - and sometimes Arthur would return the favor, if Merlin had severe enough injuries - and lead Arthur over to the bed to push the other man down under the blankets and sheets.

Arthur was often more asleep than awake by the end of the wash, but he would occasionally be conscious enough to notice Merlin's warmth as he slipped in next to Arthur and the fumbling of his fingers under the sheets for Arthur's hand.

He would take it, and squeeze it tightly.

If he was still awake.

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Thanks for reading! Reviews always appreciated.


	2. Darker Cravings

Rating: T

A/N: Originially written for a kinkme - merlin prompt (Arthur gets off on seeing Merlin dressed in chainmail and Pendragon red because it makes him feel a little more like Merlin belongs to him.)

Disclaimer: I, in no way, shape, or form, own BBC's Merlin and take no credit for the show's plot and characters.

* * *

Arthur knew that what he wanted to say was something he could never put into words.

That Merlin was his and that no one else could ever take him away. It ached in him, a deep throb that was suspiciously like jealousy and a bit like sorrow, every time he saw Merlin smile at someone else, laugh with someone else, save someone else.

He certainly could not tell Merlin – the other man might laugh in his face, or declare in that calm, wise voice he sometimes had that, no, Arthur, I'm not yours. I am my own.

It terrified Arthur, the thought of that possibility. The thought of losing Merlin all for his strange selfishness and odd desire to gather Merlin up in his arms and hold him there forever.

And, he found over the years that the roiling, hungry desire could be temporarily subdued. Arthur pulled those memories out on his loneliest days to examine again and allow that dark voice inside to crow a constant litany of mine, mine, mine.

Moments when Merlin would done his colors. The Pendragon colors. Arthur's red.

The sight of him wrapped up in Arthur's spare cloak when camping or wearing the ceremonial robes during feasts were enough for him.

For a while.

And then, Arthur came to realized it wasn't enough anymore. The hunger in him growled for more. To cover Merlin up completely, from head to toe. To smother him under everything that was Arthur.

He finally found the opportunity when they needed a decoy against Caerleon's army. Arthur smirked when all the knights backed away and left Merlin as the 'volunteer' for the trap. And then his smile widened as he realized what this meant.

Grabbing Merlin by the arm, Arthur scooped up his pack and tugged Merlin back behind a stand of trees. Releasing the other man, he said, "Go ahead and take off your clothes."

He could hear noises of sputtering and coughing behind him as he started tugging items out of his bag. "Merlin, we haven't got all day," he snapped, turning around to find the man was still fully-clothed.

Fingers trembling slightly, Arthur reached out and tugged at Merlin's shirt with a set of rather awkward gestures, "Go on then, off, off."

Merlin reached up and brushed off Arthur's hands gently. Arthur met his eyes and nearly flinched to see a bit of Merlin's typical kindness shining out at him. Here he was trying to feed the hunger within him without Merlin's consent. "Unlike you," Merlin commented, voice sly and teasing, "I can actually dress myself."

Arthur ducked his head and handed over the tunic and his spare set of chainmail. The set that Merlin had grumbled over packing until he commented that Arthur was wounded more than any other knight Merlin knew and so perhaps he should just wear both. All the time. Arthur had thrown a sweaty rag at him so Merlin would shut up.

He turned his back as Merlin pulled on the items behind him, listening to the clink of the chainmail and the rustle of cloth over skin. The rush of blood and desire under his skin raced down through his shaking hands and through his pounding heart as he waited.

"Alright, then," Merlin declared, "Do I get one of the fabled Pendragon cloaks as well?"

Though his tone was facetious once again, Arthur's heart seemed lodged in his throat as he turned around and pulled his own cloak down from his shoulders. His eyes slowly roved over Merlin's torso as Arthur swung the cloak around him.

His fingers were trembling again as he fixed the clasp against Merlin's throat and he felt flush as he met Merlin's eyes again.

The other man was smiling at him in a bemused manner and then he slowly leaned forward. "You've been wanting to do that for a long time, haven't you?" he asked, breath hot against Arthur's ear.

Arthur really did flush as he jerked back and attempted to shake his head with his suddenly stiff neck.

Merlin's hand found his and the other man continued with, "It's alright."

Sucking in a sharp breath, Arthur stared at Merlin, reading the complete sincerity on the servant's face. "I," he started, voice surprising him at how rough and low it sounded. "I just…"

Stepping back slightly, Merlin swirled the cloak around himself slightly and the minx smiled gleefully when Arthur felt his breath catch in his throat. "We'll talk about this later," Merlin declared, smirking still. "Sire," he added, "By your leave."

Winking, the dark-haired man trotted off towards the hill they discussed earlier as his position and left Arthur leaning against a tree, eyes fixed on the sight of Merlin wearing everything that was his.

Mine, the voice rumbled happily, all mine.

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Thanks for reading! Reviews are always appreciated ;)


	3. Never Truly Gone

Rating: K+ (Mentions of character deaths)

A/N: Originially written for a kinkme - merlin prompt ("Those who are dead, are not dead; they're just living in my head.")

Disclaimer: I, in no way, shape, or form, own BBC's Merlin and take no credit for the show's plot and characters.

* * *

It all started with Will – like a lot of things in Merlin's life.

He was his first friend.

He was the first outsider he told of his magic.

He was the first one to live on in Merlin's mind.

Not that he knew it was going to happen like that. One moment, Merlin was holding his hand and crying as he watched Will die, and then watching them burn his pyre, and the next Will was hysterically asking if this was normal for Merlin or was he just as confused.

In his head. Merlin burst into tears right there after Arthur walked away.

It wasn't, of course, that Merlin could see Will when he was walking around or anything. That would be crazy – and he and Will were almost certain he hadn't gone insane.

So, he went about his days and occasionally Will would jab in with a comment or snide remark at Arthur.

A typical exchange went as follows:

"And give my boots a good shine, would you, Merlin?"

"I'll give you a good shine, you oaf!"

"Will, stop."

"What was that, Merlin?

"Erh, I said, Will do, sire…uh…"

Arthur was starting to look at him like he lost his mind.

It made his lonely evenings much less lonely – Will would retell stories and jokes from their childhood, the ones he knew would make Merlin laugh the hardest. But, sometimes, he would remain silent, and it took quite a bit of yelling on Merlin's part to get him to respond.

"What's it like?" Merlin asked once, laying on his bed and staring up at the ceiling.

He could almost – just barely imagine it really – feel Will's shrug. "I couldn't explain it to you if I wanted.

"But, mate, it's…tough. Not being able to do anything I want. Not being able to leave."

Merlin remained silent.

"You know, you hear about the afterlife, right? And I wonder, will I ever have that?"

* * *

When he put Freya out on the lake, he had been repeating over and over in his head – not her, not her, please not her, please not her too, please, please, please – as he watched the boat.

When her voice didn't join Will's in his head, he set about to have a good cry on the edge of the lake.

He missed her.

When he saw her again in the cave in their darkest hour, he had frantically asked Will if she was there – with him. Was he just imagining her face there? Was she really just speaking in his head?

But, no, he had saved her in some way. She at least had the freedom to move, it seemed, or at least some type of life in the lake.

But, he had still failed her – happy as she seemed with helping him.

He had still trapped her on this earth.

It seemed everyone he knew was destined to remain with him after their death.

It seemed when someone close to him was slipping away, they began to transfer into his mind.

He didn't understand it.

He didn't want to.

But, when Morgana was lying there, gasping in desperate breaths of air, Merlin began to hear her screams and pleas in his mind – soft and almost like sounds muffled by a floor of stone. It continued for weeks after Morgause took her – the sound in his head constantly as she hovered between life and death.

Merlin almost though she had realized, there at the end, for her thoughts became aimed at hurting him – accusations and blame thrown in his face. He wondered if it was his fault or Morgause's or Uther's that she had changed so much.

He was just glad she wasn't there with him all the time – guilty as he felt.

Balinor only spoke to him when he needed the Dragon Tongue, voice steady and calm in his ear – feeding him the words and adding kind advice when speaking to Kilgharrah.

Merlin wondered if he had known this would happen.

Perhaps this was because Merlin was a Dragonlord, and such a powerful warlock, and the two had mixed and changed it somehow.

Balinor had said a Dragonlord only comes into their own when their father has passed on – that it was passed down between them. Maybe his father had been in his mind, after, teaching him and guiding him.

Merlin could never work up the courage to ask.

But, he could hear his father's murmur of happiness every time he saw Hunith – and Merlin could almost be happy with that and the knowledge that someday Balinor would be reunited with her in Merlin's head.

And that was enough.

* * *

Lancelot was the worst.

Because Merlin knew, once his voice sounded in Merlin's mind, that he was truly gone.

He apologized, over and over and over, out loud, in his head, but it never seemed enough.

Lancelot just brushed the apologies off, telling Merlin that he was honored to have given up his life for Merlin. For Arthur. For Gwen.

With Lancelot came an almost constant aid in his daily activities. If he missed an order or a direction from Arthur, Lancelot would gently remind him so he didn't forget. When there was a bandit attacking him, Lancelot would guide him through the motions of a fight with quick orders so Merlin could get to the point to drop a subtle branch on the man's head.

At Lancelot's suggestion, he asked Will to help him with his magic – he and Lancelot would remember parts of spells for him. It was easier to face more experienced sorcerers with the confidence that he wasn't the only one facing them – Will and Lancelot were there too, supporting him.

Will and Lancelot got along well, it seemed. But, then again, Lancelot had always gotten along with everyone. They seemed to have conversations without Merlin – voices a bare murmur at the back of Merlin's mind as he went about his business.

He would always greet Gwen, even though all three – well, four with Balinor – of them knew Gwen couldn't hear him.

It made Merlin want to pull his hair, and all of them, out.

And when Lancelot Du Lac appeared, Merlin instantly called out in his head to Lancelot.

And received no reply – Lancelot always replied. He was instantly suspicious, Morgana must have done something.

And, when he laid Lancelot down in the boat, whispering to himself, "It worked with Freya, it worked with Freya, it worked with Freya," Merlin looked at his face. And realized he had been starting to forget what Lancelot had looked like.

He pressed his hand to Lancelot's forehead, and cast the spell to free him from Morgana's control.

It hurt to hear Lancelot's voice again.

Outside of his head.

When the boat was consumed, Merlin felt the tears slide down his face.

Lancelot was truly gone.

It was hard.

* * *

Every time Arthur was wounded and on the brink of death.

Merlin would hear his voice start as a murmur in the back of his mind.

"You will get better. You won't die," he would say fiercely to Arthur as he sat at his bedside, changing his bandages or wiping his sweat. "I won't let you join them."

Because he couldn't stand having Arthur trapped in his head.

He knew Arthur wouldn't be able to stand it.

He especially wouldn't be able to stand it because he always seemed to forget how they appeared – he could no longer remember Will's smile, or Balinor's eyes that had been so much like his. And it was the same with them – Will had on occasion spoken up and asked if Merlin remembered what color his hair had been, or what the shape of his face, or even anything besides the sound of his voice.

Merlin had lost all of those things.

He didn't want to lose his memories of Arthur like that.

Merlin hoped such a thing would never occur – that he would die before Arthur if it came down to it. He would willingly and almost desperately throw himself in the path of any mortal blow for Arthur, just to spare him that.

Just to spare himself too.

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Thanks for reading! Reviews always appreciated :)


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